


Wolf Trap Light

by Affectionary



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: F/F, First Meetings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 18:42:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20394361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Affectionary/pseuds/Affectionary
Summary: Clarice needs advice. Clarice has to focus. On Hannibal. (Not her.)





	Wolf Trap Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wolf_of_Lilacs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_of_Lilacs/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [Wolf_of_Lilacs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_of_Lilacs/pseuds/Wolf_of_Lilacs) in the [TomarryFlashExchanges](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TomarryFlashExchanges) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> SotL timeline. Clarice needs some advice for dealing with Hannibal, and gets rather more than that when she meets the person that is recommended to her.
> 
> Beautiful playlist made by Fey Relay. And so is the moodboard.  
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5720OcTW0rd9jFMbQEWUoQ?si=9J-IKoMrQhi8_cw4tueoag

  
  
She thanked Jamison for sailing her out to the Light. He was the only one who would, so despite having to squeeze in around his tackle box and lantern across from him as he awkwardly attempted to play tour guide, she was grateful that he stepped up to the plate for her. Something about floating out on the water, in the fog, with a stranger, all by their lonesome, didn’t appeal to the hobbyists of Wolf Trap. Folktales had been provoked into frightful existence by sleepwalkers and rippers, the fog rolling in from the bay. And the natural human tendency to see faces and patterns in the darkness.  
  
The specter of Dr. Lecter hung heavy here.  
  
The motorboat trembled as she accessed the rust-red ladder. She gripped the bars very firmly, evened and steadied her feet, and set to climbing. She braved a glance backwards. Yep, there’s Jamison, getting the hell out of dodge to warm beds and lower stakes.  
  
Sitting on the caisson did not feel like sitting. It must have felt similar to how the builders felt before they died during the construction of a Light no one will buy. Unstable.  
  
The oblong Wolf Trap Light wasn’t like the illustrations of candy cane-striped lighthouses on the shore, which admittedly was what she was envisioning at first, hearing Lecter’s psychiatrist was currently residing in a lighthouse out on Chesapeake Bay. It was a claustrophobic island, wet and red, buffeted by little waves and heavy condensation. Perpetually dripping, like rust was sloughing off the metal, into the bay. The gulls screamed.  
  
In the mist, one of those birds supplied her the thought that she was in a dream. Black-and-white, and pointlessly crimson. The nitrogen-cool came especially quick in this climate, and she put a freeze to her absentminded surreality and focused.  
  
She rapped on the door, louder than would make a good impression but her priority was to be noticed. She would wait out here all night if she had to. She’s gotten this far, and it won’t be for nothing.  
  
The woman that opens the door to a suspicious crack and peers at her is undoubtedly Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier, undoubtedly Hannibal the Cannibal’s reclusive psychiatrist. Clarice wonders if she saw what was wrong with Dr. Lecter. If she knew. If she could have reported and prevented it.  
  
“You are?”  
  
“Agent Clarice Starling - Working with Behavioral Science.” Clarice has to step on eggshells here. Crawford said Dr. Du Maurier is cagey, mysterious, and heavily invested in hiding from Dr. Lecter. And yes, Starling, she is aware that Hannibal Lecter is heavily incarcerated for life within Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.  
  
Dr. Du Maurier oh-ed, a tidy sound. Her eyes were lidded by shadow and exhaustion. She did not look surprised.  
  
“You may come in.”  
  
The first thing Clarice notices is the .38 the doctor discards upon a box, safety on. The second is the fragrances of which she is barraged, in contrast to the brisk and bitter atmosphere outside, lavender and lilac and cinnamon - others she can’t name. Evidently from the veritable garden of flowers, and the seemingly-scented candles. The sprawling, hanging verdantry might be aiming-and missing for therapy appointment or home. And there is a spiral staircase, central to the room, leading up to the light.  
  
The inside reminded her that Wolf Trap Light was mostly brick.  
  
“You’re young.”  
  
And Du Maurier is of an age with Dr. Lecter.  
  
“Dr. Du Maurier. I need to communicate with Dr. Lecter more effectively,” Ignore the scoff, “Sooner and quicker. I want to be able to verify if he’s telling the truth. I’m not asking you to reveal your sessions with him. But I’m asking for your insight. You know him best of all.”  
  
It was as diplomatic as she could manage while borrowing Crawford’s warm bluster.  
  
The doctor said nothing but, “I see Mr. Graham isn’t helping you much.”  
  
“Actually, I’ve come to you first.”  
  
There is a crick to Dr. Du Maurier’s smile.  
  
“Jack Crawford sent you. Will Graham is precious to him, even twisted and broken. Regardless, he ignored his instincts and is making the same mistake with another cadet.”  
  
She pressed on the outpouring of words.  
  
“You must understand how hard it was for me to get here. This address isn't listed anywhere. Or your number-which is defunct. You don’t let anybody know too much of you, and you move around frequently, and find you...Practically took a letter-writing and phone campaign, and that is putting it lightly.” Could have been the first female president.  
  
“I receive letters from Dr. Lecter occasionally.”  
  
“Do you reply?”  
  
“Never.”  
  
She knew.  
  
“But you read them.”  
  
Du Maurier had likely never stepped foot in a morgue, all the same, she looked like she stepped out of one.  
  
“Would you like anything to drink, Agent Starling?”  
  
Clarice was at least going to get a conversation. She tried her luck, “A soda?”  
  
“Tea, water, or wine.”  
  
And so went the doctor up, spiraling on the stairs, leaving Clarice without so much as a glance downwards.  
  
She didn’t know how Dr. Lecter would have reached her. None of Lecter’s letters had been addressed to a Dr. Du Maurier. And none of them had been addressed to the anesthesiologist who owned this dismal lighthouse.  
  
This floor, with its lilacs and burning candles, had been meant to have a calming effect. Clarice wasn’t sure if was working for the woman, intensely isolated and intensely paranoid.  
  
Crawford seemed to be the most intact person to make it past Hannibal Lecter’s reign. She couldn’t say the Doctor’s paranoia is unjustified.  
  
She stood around awkwardly, until the Doctor’s hands, like opera gloves, directed her to a crate where she could sit and nestled Clarice between the roses.  
  
Roses too. She had smelled those as well.  
  
“Your tea.”  
  
Her hands trembled like a lion tamer. The characteristic shake of an alcoholic. The Doctor was poise by candlelight, sipping her wine.  
  
The conversation began like a timed therapy session. Or a lecture on sensitivity.  
  
“I trust you're being tactful with him. Is he willing?”  
  
She is an amalgamate of sediment. Smoothed out by rivers and wine.  
  
“More willing with me, than with anybody else.”  
  
“And are you?”  
  
Just as established. “Just can’t stop prodding him.”  
  
Kinship lightened Du Maurier’s face.  
  
“I wouldn't recommend sharing your language with him. He won't stoop to use it, but he will learn it--and mutilate it. Learn his language, I'm sure you've identified it.”  
  
“Art, religion, theatre, culture. Study it. Introduce him to new vocabulary along his vein.”  
  
Clarice interjected, “How do I know if it's new to him?”  
  
“He's not omniscient.” Hard to buy coming from his former psychiatrist. “Pick from something outside of his usual tastes. Expand his palette.”  
  
But she saw where she was coming from. “It would flatter him, force him to engage.”  
  
“Force him? He is the one in control, Clarice. Entice, at best.”  
  
Bedelia Du Maurier resembles him, a same surname resemblance, either familial or intimate. It's not intentional.  
  
Clarice Starling wonders if she’ll be as fastidious with word choice when this is over.  
  
She is inundated with strategies from Du Maurier. _She isn’t frantic_, but the lavenders and lilacs are doing much for her. Wolf Trap has always been right under Quantico and Lecter’s noses. When you're hiding, you still jump at shadows. And yet she is still very bold.  
  
“Do you think living on the run is a good life?”  
  
“It is a life-Better than being dead.” The gulls screamed.  
  
“I agree. If you don't die, Clarice, Hannibal will require you to familiarize yourself with it. But choose your company carefully."  
  
Her lips are red.


End file.
